The Plague Doctor
by MX5
Summary: My first full length Sherlock story. Helps if you've read my prequel story but not really necessary. Nicola Pennington comes to live with Sherlock and John, she helps them to solve the case of several murders that were done in the style of 16th century executions.


PROLOGUE

The day turned out bright and sunny with no chance of rain and the haze had burned off at about 11 that morning. The church bell rang, somber and sweet with its tones echoing over the valley as the hearse pulled up in the crescent driveway.

A faint smell of cedar permeated the breeze as John Watson stepped out of the church after delivering a heartfelt eulogy, clad in deep black for mourning, Mrs. Hudson clinging to his arm like her life depended on it. Grateful for the support, he squeezed her hand right back as the pallbearers stepped forward.

At the grave site when the minister was done, there was a tap on John's shoulder. He turned around, seeing Nicola Pennington standing behind him, wearing a black skirt, tights, and chunky heeled shoes like the Queen wore. John had to blink for a moment until his eyes got adjusted to the light, as Nicola's top gave off a glare in the sunshine. Her top might have literally been flashy, but her expression was anything but bright. She looked the same as John remembered her.

"Hey John," Nicola said in a low voice. "I'm so sorry." they fell in step together with Mrs. Hudson following a little distance away to allow them a little privacy.

"Thanks. Sorry we never saw you after the storm."

"Sherlock called a few times but I had touring lectures to do and when I had a moment he was busy. We texted a bit."

"I bet. We talked about you sometimes and I regret not asking to meet up with you sooner. It had to be at a tragedy like this."

"Well…" Nicola had no idea what to say as the gravesite loomed before them with a black granite headstone towering over the plot.

Sherlock's words came back to John, "This phone call's my note.."

"His greatest foe brought him down, didn't he?" Nicola watched the casket descend. "Moriarty."

"Haven't you read the papers? He-"

"No, John, don't do that," she interrupted. "we all have enemies. It happens. I don't read the papers and I know that Sherlock was eccentric, so with that one person with a screw loose has to rise up and think he can better the detective, one up him. It's the schoolyard bully paradigm. At any rate, I will not sully his memory with what those tabloid morons wrote about him. We know the real Sherlock or at least we did."

"Excuse us!" the funeral director chimed. The backhoe with the trailer full of dirt began moving into place to fill in the hole.

"Well, I'm sure I've got to be going," Nicola walked with John to her Audi. "more lectures and what have you."

"Right." he opened up the car door for her and she slid in.

"John, call me anytime. I know you need a friend." she looked up at him with pleading brown eyes.

"I guess you're the only one I have left." Nicola squeezed his hand.

"I care about you, hon. Don't hesitate to call me at any time, all right? If I can't talk I will get back to you." she started up her Audi and turned on the headlights.

"I promise." he gave her a thin smile and she mirrored it.

"You're tough. It'll take awhile and you'll have bad days, but you will get your equilibrium back."

"I will." he was feeling marginally better by the little pep talk.

"You know what? Supper tonight with me. I'll stop by and pick you up."

John was taken aback by the declaration he could only nod and manage a "that sounds great." as she nodded and accelerated off down the road.

That night, Nicola dressed casually, a pair of denim shorts, sneakers, and a pink camisole shirt with a black hoodie over it. She wore hoop earrings, had her hair back in a loose ponytail. John had on a blue and white plaid shirt with chinos and sneakers. They went to an Italian restaurant, gossiped, and Nicola got him to tell her stories about Sherlock.

"So this Adler woman is dead?" Nicola asked, admiring the way the dim lighting was kind to John. His dark blue eyes brightened up a little bit but he still looked haunted by what had transpired recently. Italian music was piped into the room by speakers that were semi-concealed by the tchotchkes on the wall. She picked up her glass of white wine and took a sip of it as John did the same.

"Apparently. Mycroft told me she was beheaded in one of the eastern countries. I don't know any more than that."

"Why bother to look into it? Dead is dead."

"True. All I know is that woman is the one that got away for old Sherlock." he flushed as he remembered seeing Irene for the first time; she had been naked and straddling Sherlock's knee with his fake collar in her mouth.

"What, a dominatrix with a toxic social life? I would play it safe. Besides, even if I got the charm on and went bareass naked in front of him, I doubt he would even notice. Physicality isn't something that he's in tune to, whether mind or his downstairs. He's just not wired that way."

"No, I think he gets himself off to solving cases. It was his addiction."

"True. I heard a rumor, John, that Adler isn't dead. It's just a rumor mind you, but there was a sighting of her in America. Oregon if I remember right."

"Everyone has a double," he dismissed it offhand. "but enough about that. Where have you been?"

"Everywhere. I went up to Edinburgh and spoke about Mary Queen of Scots and her son, James the VI. The murder of Lord Darnley got everyone all riled up."

"Nobody knows who killed him, right?" John dredged up what history he could remember from high school.

"Correct. I believe that Mary herself killed him. She was very unscrupulous and I don't think she hesitated upon killing him. He murdered her Italian secretary she'd been having affairs with."

"She had the motive." their discussion went on for another hour until John had to reluctantly call it a night. They paid the bill and left the restaurant, John standing at the street corner with Nicola as she got into her car, giving him a flash of deja vu from earlier.

"Remember what I said. Call anytime." Nicola kissed him on the cheek, got into her car and left.

John watched her drive off, a little smile on his face. What a pity she wasn't taken by some lucky fellow, he thought. I hope to be so lucky someday.

Two days later, Nicola drove her car into the parking lot for her flat, and wearing a blue pants suit with black pumps, clicked across the lot, got into the elevator, walked to her apartment number, and was fishing around for her keys when the door opened.

"Fishy," she pulled out a derringer from her bag and walked in carefully. "I'm home! Who is lying in wait for me, hmm?"

"Lying in wait means someone will attack you," a familiar voice drawled. "put it away."

Nicola flicked on the lights to see Sherlock sitting on her couch. "You asshole! Playing dead for the general populace but not me? What do you want?" he stood up to come near her, but she backed away, gun still in hand. "How do I know it's really you?"

"How did you know it was really Jerry that night?" Sherlock winked at her, knowing she'd never told John about the ghostly encounter. Sherlock looked like he always did, wearing a dark blue shirt and black pants with matching blazer top. His greatcoat was hung up in her closet, having already made himself at home.

"Why on earth are you playing dead? Do you know how badly John is torn up over you? You going to pretend to die on me too?" Nicola put her derringer back in her purse, zipped it up, then put her keys in an outer pocket, stuffing her purse in the bottom section of a shelf mounted on the wall nearby.

"You never thought I was dead?" his eyes widened. He thought it was a convincing performance, but then again she wasn't at the actual "death" when it happened.

"I've read John's blog. I know you will do anything to get the job done and you will go to extremes if necessary. My logical conclusion is that you faked it for a reason. There's another plan brewing on in your mind, Sherlock. You have to go off the grid for awhile."

"Very good. You got lesson 1 down. Who taught you to think that way?" Sherlock edged towards her, closing the gap as she looked at him, deep in thought for a long moment. He could see the wheels turning in her head.

Nicola put her arms down, looking exasperated. "Did you think nothing of your friends and their feelings for you? Do you treat them all like they're disposable and you can throw them under the bus without conscience?" Nicola marched him back to the couch, took him by the shoulders and barked out an order for him to sit down. "To answer your own question, it was my dad who told me to think analytically. Committing suicide wasn't likely for you. It's too out of your character. You aren't the type to just suddenly give up." Sherlock's eyes lit up like he did when he had an interesting case. Nicola was a smart lady, no doubt about it.

"Tell me the whole story." she leaned over him and switched on the table lamp.

"Fine. Do you have any tea?"

"You British and your tea!" Nicola sneered. "I don't drink that vile crap. You want a hot drink, you get coffee or cocoa."

"Why don't you drink it?"

"It makes me sick to my guts. Not a good experience." Nicola's very proper English grandmother acted like she'd burned the Union Jack after Nicola told her why she had to beat a hasty retreat to the bathroom. Sherlock noticed the smirk on her lips and knew she was reliving the memory. He uttered a sigh that made him sound very put upon.

"Fine. Cocoa then."

Sherlock appraised the apartment as Nicola bustled around in the kitchen. It was all open space except for the loo and the bedroom. The living room was painted pastel blue, the kitchen was in light yellow, and everywhere had white trimming. Pictures hung on the walls, some Sherlock had seen before, some he hadn't.

Nicola came back with two mugs, one of which she gave to Sherlock, sitting on the couch with him.

"No biscuits?" he appraised the mug which was stark white with a single daisy on one side. Her mug was red with no adornment. Clearly the mug he was using had been given to her and she didn't care about her mugs matching colors.

"I need to grocery shop. Story now."

When he was done, Nicola's eyes were wide. "I didn't realize-"

"Of course not," he cut her off. "nobody does."

"Well, this means I'm harboring a fugitive in my flat! Why in the hell did you come to me?"

"I need a favor. I can't get out of the country without some recognizing me."

"How does that involve me?"

"When's the next time you go on a lecture tour?"

"Six days I leave for Germany. Why?"

"Book me a seat on that flight, will you? I can be your assistant. You have makeup here, right?"

"Yes. All right, I'll help you! Don't go through my stuff!" he jumped up and rifled through her closet. Nicola appeared at the entranceway to her room, giving him an exasperated look. "What did I ever do to deserve you? You're a hyperactive 7-year-old!"

"Come on, we have to change my look. You're a woman, give me your best." Sherlock found a small silver box that he held up. Nicola narrowed her eyes, putting her mug on her dresser and walking over to him.

"My best, eh? Bathroom, now, take your shirt off." she draped a towel around his neck, perched him on a chair, and proceeded to cut his mop of hair off, leaving it very short. "Oh, suave. Now, hair dye. I want you a deep red." an hour later, his hair was auburn. "Grow a beard to hide your cheekbones."

"That all?" he didn't look too bad, considering.

"Less is more, less is more." it was almost midnight. "Now, I sleep naked. If you see it, well I don't care. You were warned. I'll get groceries and clothes tomorrow. Night."

"Six days can't be over fast enough." Sherlock mumbled. He made himself comfortable on the leather couch and drew up the fleece blanket Nicola had dug out for him.

Over their time together, they had become more amicable. Sherlock and Nicola would chat about the day's news when supper time rolled around and discovering he had quite a ravenous appetite, Nicola made him all sorts of things for supper.

"What's for dinner tonight?" he didn't mind bulking up before his next mission, knowing it would be hard and he might have to starve for days.

"Well tonight I'm doing an oven roasted turkey breast with garlic, olive oil, thyme, and some rosemary." she speared the meat and put it on a platter, then doled it out onto plates. Greens and home fries rounded out the supper. For dessert there were poached pears in a rum sauce.

For the second night there was pan roasted haddock with green beans, the following nights Nicola prepared fettuccine, spaghetti with meatballs, even made some British favorites like pocket meat pies, then made a classic pork pie. Sherlock admired it and dove right into it like there was no tomorrow.

Lunches were always casual. For a few days Sherlock demolished the pork pie while Nicola didn't care. She didn't really like that type of pie so one lunchtime she made a favorite from her childhood, chicken pie. She'd made enough of the pies to last a week for lunch so that was what they had.

"What would you like for supper tonight, Sherlock? We leave tomorrow." she reminded him on the last night.

"I swear you put two stone on me this week," he grunted, turning the newspaper. "even Mrs. Hudson doesn't cook like that."

"Come on, ideas?"

"I would like… how about some seafood?"

"Want some lobster and clams? A nice big chunk of salmon or grouper?"

"Lobster sounds wonderful."

After she had procured all the ingredients, she dispatched the lobster with a knife to the brain, steamed open the clams, and oven baked all of it with a fillet of red snapper. Nicola made a sauce for them, then sat down at the table.

"Trough's up!" her cue for come and eat.

Sherlock looked better than he had before coming to her. His color was better and she had reawakened his appetite with her skills. He hadn't gained any weight at all but kept grumbling that she was making him fat. Nicola kept teasing him that she was just giving him a taste of what he was missing. He was going to miss her and her cooking when he had gone.

"Ready?" Nicola took away the plates and put the leftovers away.

"For dessert? What have you got this time?" usually she kept it light like a fruit tart or chocolate covered strawberries.

"I made us some cannoli." during the day if he got peckish he'd always made a beeline for her cookie jar where she had some sugar iced cookies, though he did mention to her once how much he missed cannoli. A smile lit up his face as Nicola brought them over, whining about why did he only get two.

"They're very rich, Sherlock. Two is all you can handle." she smiled. The week hadn't been as bad as either one of them thought it would be. Nicola had gone to teach a few classes at the nearby college as a guest lecturer, Sherlock had been doing research on his pet project. Soon he would have to travel to the north.

Sadly, the time came when they had to part ways. Sherlock was traveling under the name of Reginald Foster and he was setting out for Asia. Nicola embraced him tightly, promised to look after John, and kissed him on the cheek.

"I will be back. I have your number and I will be coming home. Bring me a treat when you see me next." a rare tease. Sherlock had gotten fond of Nicola, surpisingly.

"Of course. Try to stay out of trouble." her eyes glittered in the harsh lighting of the airport. Sherlock's new beard scratched her a little bit when she hugged him. Nobody who knew him would be able to recognize him now. He looked older, taller, and a little more human in her eyes.

"Take care of John."

Nicola smiled then saw Sherlock bringing his face closer to hers, then their lips met before she knew what was going on. Nothing else was said between them as he gave her a gentle smile when their lips parted, though both of them had a heaviness in their chests as they turned to their respective destinations. Sherlock blinked, trying to clear the tears in his eyes that had sprung up suddenly. In the opposite direction, Nicola was doing the same.

"He was damnably vague in his mission," she swore. "will I ever see him again?"

The agents waved her through the metal detectors, allowing Nicola to board the plane without a fuss. As she sat in her seat with a sigh, a determined feeling came over her.

"Yes," she decided, pulling out her book. "I will see him again."

TWO YEARS LATER-PRESENT DAY

Christmas was coming and John was in a right turmoil. His supposedly dead friend Sherlock had revealed himself as alive! He'd still lived at Baker Street and helped Mrs. Hudson clear out his friend's old possessions, boxing them up and putting them in the attic. He'd finally gotten his painful goodbye over and was ready to move on with his life when his old friend comes back in and tips his life upside down again. Typical Sherlock, he couldn't leave anything alone!

He was standing in his room, looking at the picture of Sherlock in the deerstalker hat-the picture Sherlock had always loathed, when he heard a "Hello, John." from behind him.

It took him several minutes to comprehend what was going on, and his first instinct was to attack him in a savage way, just to clear the air. He'd put John through hell, so hopefully his attack conveyed how he felt!

"Ow! At least you don't hit as hard as Nicola did!" he complained when John let him up. Sherlock had a black eye, presumably from her.

It had been in November when Sherlock had come back and now it was mid December, John was learning to re trust his friend all over again. Both of them had to get reacquainted and it was a slow process, but in the end it had been worth it. John had been timid, not wanting to put all of his trust into a person of whom he wasn't sure if he was going to fake his own death again.

John had to console himself with the knowledge that Sherlock was back and he knew his friend would not fake his death without some sort of purpose in mind. The surgeon was still licking his wounds over Sherlock's betrayal, but he didn't know the whole story yet.

That night, Sherlock was twiddling with his violin and John was sitting in his old chair, reading the newest magazine the army had sent him, with the vain hope of recruiting him back. Mrs. Hudson was downstairs, twittering to herself, happy that both of her boys were home. Sherlock hadn't changed a bit, barking at her like no time had passed at all.

"So where have you been all this time?" John refolded the magazine and thrust it down on the end table, rubbing at his left temple where he felt a headache start to throb.

The violin stopped and then started playing again. "What?"

"You heard me," John said in a quiet tone but there was an underlying hint of menace that Sherlock did not fail to note. "I want answers."

"Fine," Sherlock plopped down in his chair, putting his instrument aside. "where should I begin?"

John rolled his eyes in exasperation. "How about after your funeral?"

"I was there," the detective admitted. "I watched you and Nicola walk to her car. Sweet girl. Are you dating her?"

"No. We went out a few times-" John stopped. Sherlock was always adept at flipping the conversation to the other person when he wanted a distraction. "nice try."

"Fine. I had to go undercover if you will to disable Moriarty's extensive criminal network. It took me two years but I managed to do it. I was taken captive in Russia."

"So who broke you out?"

"What do you mean?"

"I know of the Russian KGB tactics, I was in the military," John looked smug. "they would have tortured you and deprived you of sleep. You would have been run down and in no shape to mount an escape."

"Fine. Mycroft rescued me. He impersonated a KGB agent and took me out during the night. We got on board a destroyer which brought us back here."

"Would have loved to have seen that. From what I have seen, Mycroft hates field work."

"That he does," Sherlock knew his brother well. Mycroft was more of a desk sitter, one who would orchestrate events but didn't like going out of the office or out of the country. "that brother of mine."

"How did he find out where you were?"

"The British Secret Service got word of a British person apprehended by the KGB. Two blokes in a bar, I imagine. Got liquored up and spilled out a little secret. Anyway, I'm here and ready to take on the next case we get!"

John had gotten all he ever would out of Sherlock on that, he surmised. Not that Mycroft would be of any assistance either. He was even more tight lipped than his younger brother and all he liked to do out of work was sit in the Diogenes Club and down tools of his favorite brandy. Neither one of the brothers were talkers in any sense of the word and the art of conversation was lost on them both.

"All right." the surgeon dropped the matter from his mind. Sherlock gave him a rare grin, then picked up his violin again.

"Any requests, John?" he asked, bow poised and ready to play.

"Hmmm. Do you know Orpheus?" he'd heard the song on a movie once.

"Good choice."

The phone rang about halfway through the piece which John answered. "Hello?"

"Lestrade."

"What's up, Greg?"

"Got a nice fresh one for Sherlock."

"How did you know he was back?"

"Passed him on the tube this morning. I wasn't sure it was him at first, but he did that mind thing he always does, so I was sure it was him."

John guffawed. "OK, text him the address and we will be out there sharpish."

Sherlock put down his violin and jumped up, a bright light in his eyes like a terrier who had gotten the scent. John smiled as he dug his hands into his jacket, pulled it up, then went to the door.

At the crime scene, Sherlock's familiar steps made Lestrade turn and check him over visually. The detective had been a bit thinner than when he had "died" but seemed the same as usual. He strode over to the crime scene tape, had a gruff welcome back by Donovan, then came up to the detective inspector.

"Welcome back, Sherlock. Over there." in an alleyway between two buildings, the coroner was about to zip up the top of the body bag when Sherlock wedged himself in.

"Blonde, female, had many lovers, obviously meeting up here for a little rendezvous and she got killed." the victim's clothes were in tatters so he wasn't able to glean much, and it was dark out so nobody saw well. Lestrade pulled the body out so it was under the streetlight.

"Yes, well you see Sherlock, there was this picture we found nearby and it really stymied us." Lestrade handed Sherlock a picture and Sherlock stuffed it in his pocket.

"I'll have a look at that later. Who is this victim?"

"Myrah Gaylord, 33 years old, apart from wisdom teeth removal, in excellent health." Lestrade reported, checking his notes.

"Yes.. you can see from her hair that she's a fake blonde, brunette at the roots, she wore contact lenses to make her eyes green but they're really brown," Sherlock pulled one off of the corpse's cornea. "she wore too much makeup in a pathetic effort to make herself look younger, I can tell by the feet that she wore high heels as they're slightly deformed."

"Right. I'll get on the radio and send Donovan out to notify the family." Lestrade zipped up the body bag, motioning for the police to take it to the ambulance.

"What's that picture in your pocket Lestrade gave you?" John walked with Sherlock, waving his arm as he flagged down a cab. Once inside, Sherlock pulled out the paper, smoothed it out and appraised it while John turned on the dome light.

"What is that?" it was a crude drawing of a person wearing long black robes, what looked like a black gambler's hat, and a half mask that covered from the brow to the nose which was elongated almost six inches.

"It seems familiar to me somehow…"

"I saw that in a history book once," John proclaimed. "I think I know who to call."

"Quite right." Sherlock folded the paper and put it in his pocket.

".. I told you, Robert, I am not taking part in your games anymore!" Nicola shouted into her phone as she walked to her car. "Sheesh. I go to the gym to de-stress and you've got the knack for calling me as I'm done and get my blood pressure back up to stress levels! You already made me late for a meeting over at the museum and now you're pulling this shit on me again!"

A light rain had begun to fall and the wind began to pick up, lashing her already wet hair into her face. Nicola brushed it back, exasperated. "I will not be a part of your shenanigans! Stop calling me!" she hung up and unlocked her Audi.

As soon as Nicola threw her gym bag in the back and had started the car, her text message alert went off.

Come to Baker Street. JW.

Nicola knew where it was and though she had driven past it, had never been in it. The gym was not far away so she made it there in less than 20 minutes. Thankfully there was parking at nine PM with no charge, so she got the closest spot to the door.

The historian halfheartedly wondered if she could get Sherlock and John to call off her brother with his annoying calls and texts. It was borderline harassment and she would have to bring it up sometime soon.

"I don't know what that brother of mine gets up to, "she mumbled as she unbuckled her seat belt, grabbed her purse, and got out of the car. "fired from the merchant marines, knocks up the first girl he meets not once but twice, they live together with their spoiled brats and he expects me to be on his side!"

A few fat snowflakes fell from the sky as Nicola rapped on the door twice and it was answered by Mrs. Hudson.

"Are you Ms. Pennington the famous historian?" the old lady grinned. "I loved your paper on sixteenth century culture!"

"You must be Mrs. Hudson," Nicola shook her hand. "the boys sent for me."

"Right upstairs, dear! Come this way." Mrs. Hudson was quite a bubbly and outgoing old lady and she chattered to Nicola all the way up the stairs.

Already ill at ease, Nicola barely tolerated the old lady, but pasted on a fake smile and walked into the living room. Both men looked up at her from their chairs and gestured for her to take a seat. John looked at her admiringly, seeing the black knee length skirt, black pumps, and a purple metallic shirt. From her ears dangled little rhinestone drops that glittered in the lamplight.

"What's this about?"

"You're already stressed," Sherlock observed as she tied her hair back into a ponytail.

"My brother Robert is pestering me, that's all. What do you need?"

"What is this?" Sherlock handed her the drawing.

"Huh. Someone must be running late to a costume party. This hasn't been in fashion since the 16th century." Nicola smoothed it out and tilted it so it caught the light better.

"Do you know what it is?" John asked patiently.

"You bet. This is a 16th century so-called plague doctor. The beak on the mask was stuffed with aromatics they believed would protect them. They were second rate doctors who did not have a practice."

"Well, that doesn't fit with what we know.." John hemmed. "we found this picture at the scene of a murder. The woman had her throat cut and was almost disemboweled."

"Ugh!" Nicola was disgusted. "Just when you think things are a million times better than the 16th century, one always thinks the old ways are the right ways."

"Some things would have been better in shall we say old school." Sherlock remarked. "I for one would welcome dueling." John and Nicola gave him an odd look. Nobody could fathom the detective's mind and with remarks like t hat, nobody would ever want to. Nicola put the picture down as John shut his laptop.

"Sherlock? I can hear your mind working from here."

Nicola sniggered as the detective's eyes lit up. Once he started there was no stopping him.

"This psychopath lured the woman into the alleyway under the guise of some innocent pretext, maybe to buy a counterfeit Rolex, drugged the woman, then because of a sadistic streak, tortured her and ended her life in the process. He hates women, possibly because of an overbearing female in his family or he's married to one. He likes history, hence the plague doctor getup. If there's another corpse like this we can assume he has an insatiable appetite or a lust for killing."

"So how do we go about to narrow it down who is responsible for this?"

"I need to consult my homeless network for this one. They will be able to tell me if there's anything going on out of the ordinary in London." Sherlock pulled out his wallet, checking the amount he had, then began rapid fire texting to some of his "employees" in the network.

"So what's going on with you?" John prompted Nicola, who sighed and sank down onto the couch.

"My brother Robert," Nicola explained how he'd been fired from the merchant marine a few years ago, her father had cut him out of the will and the trust fund he'd been used to since he was 18. Robert had a long time girlfriend of whom Nicola reported having the "princess complex" where it was all her, all the time.

"He's buying her garbage that he can't afford," Nicola griped. "my parents hate her, they won't acknowledge their grandchildren, a 5-year-old and an 8-year-old. They act like spoiled brats and my brother is a silly narcissist. Dad and Mom disowned him when they found out Robert had sired children out of wedlock. Now he thinks I'm in his corner which I'm not. He's been nagging me to see if he can wrangle an invitation out of me to move his bastards and girlfriend into my flat for a week!"

"How do you get out of it?"

"She prevaricates needlessly and ignores their phone calls!" Sherlock called. "Classic. She doesn't want to upset her brother but she values her parents more than the bastard generator."

"Family dynamics are complicated and confusing." Nicola defended herself. "It baffles me that my brother was raised the right way to believe that marriage is better and then the kids come along but no, he has to shake it up and have bastards! I don't know, but sometimes I believe in the stigma of bastardry. If you're not married then don't have kids!"

For once Sherlock didn't contradict her. He remained absorbed in his texting, wondering exactly who had seen what. He thought the network had been a little too quiet recently anyway. John nodded his acknowledgement, thinking that it wouldn't be a bad thing, but then the culture of the day was less permissive than ever.

"Damn!" Nicola's phone buzzed and she answered it. "Yes?"

"What?!" she shouted, standing bolt upright. "How in the hell did that happen? All of it?"

John waited apprehensively until she hung up when she gave him her news. "it appears my apartment complex has had a fire! I wouldn't be surprised if my idiot brother and his harridan had something to do with it! I really don't want to stay in a hotel but there's no other choice now!" she sank back down into the chair and put her hands up to her face, dragging them down slowly, looking more tired than ever.

"Why don't you stay with us?" John suggested, putting his phone on the side table and giving her a warm glance. He reached over and gave her a small embrace with his arm across her shoulders as she returned his little smile.

"Are you OK with this, Sherlock?" Nicola leaned over to look at him more clearly.

"Mm hmm." was all he said. Both John and Nicola didn't think that Sherlock heard the proposition clearly at all, but neither were they going to question what he had said. Mrs. Hudson would have to be informed and John didn't think that would be any problem. She'd teased that both of them needed a lady to look after them anyway.

"All right, fine! The fire has destroyed my property so I have nothing now! I'm glad my car is still in one piece! I can't commute to here from outer Dartmoor, it's a little too far. I'll be looking for a flat of my own, trust me. Now I have to call the fire marshal and account for where I've been."

"Surely they wouldn't-"

"The entire planet's paranoid now, John. There's no telling what anyone would do. I better head over and see if there's anything salvageable in the ruins." she picked up her leather jacket from the back of a chair and picked up her purse.

"See you soon then." John gave her an affectionate peck on the cheek while Sherlock barely noticed her departure.

"Off now, dear?" Mrs. Hudson purred, startling Nicola as she came downstairs.

"Yes, I have some business to attend to, Mrs. Hudson. My flat complex burned down and I need to see if anything survived the flames." she put her jacket on and tied the sash, slinging her purse over her left arm.

"Oh I'm sorry, Nicola!" the old lady fussed. "You can stay here if you need to! In fact, if you don't want to put up with Sherlock, the flat next door, 221A will be available in the new year."

"I'll see how we get along this week, Mrs. Hudson. I'm not going to jump into things." she twisted the handle on the door and opened it up.

"I understand, dear. Go get everything settled first."

"Thank you." Mrs. Hudson was a lady that was bubbly and generous, but Nicola wasn't used to that kind of person. She could get used to it pretty easily though, since Mrs. Hudson was a genuine sweet lady who cared.

Out on the street, Nicola brushed her hair back from her face, cursing slightly when the wind tousled it and snowflakes fell sparsely onto the pavement. Nicola winced at the faint stink of carbon dioxide from all the motorists, then turned to the left when she nearly crashed into a brunette who was playing on her phone.

"Get in the car," she nodded towards a black Jaguar XJ. "my boss wants to see you."

"Tell your boss he can reschedule at MY convenience," Nicola huffed. "I have business to attend to."

"I know. It's already been attended to. In the car."

Nicola cast a suspicious glance at the woman as she opened up the door and slid into the leather interior. The opposite door opened and the woman slid in beside her, phone still in hand.

"I'd ask for your name but I don't think you'd give me your real one."

"You'd be right on that one."

About ten minutes later with neither one of the ladies speaking again, the Jaguar pulled up in front of an abandoned warehouse, the headlights making eerie tunnels of faint light in the semi darkness. Nicola rolled her eyes as she opened up the door without being told and walked in front of the car.

She pulled her black leather jacket tighter around her, slightly chilled all of a sudden. Nicola pulled out her purple gloves from her pockets and pulled them on as the wind picked up outside. How befitting a role for her, she thought. The friend of Sherlock and John meets her end in a shadowy warehouse because some person propositioned her to get into a car.

"Well come forward, Ms. Pennington. I promise you I won't bite." a masculine voice called her. She trotted forward boldly, her high heeled shoes making a clacking sound on the cement. A stink of formaldehyde pierced her nostrils but she soldiered on. Her father always said project confidence with every motion you make and people will respect you. Those words held true all of her life so far, so if she was going to snuff it, she would do so with confidence.

In a bright spotlight a man dressed in a suit with a black greatcoat and black gloves stood waiting for her. He had brown hair and blue eyes, slim build, and a rather smirking grin on his face as Nicola got closer to him.

"OK, why have you brought me here?"

"Direct, aren't you?" the smile grew but his words were not mocking.

"All right, government boy, what's going on?" Nicola took a step closer, her shoulders squared, the picture of confidence. The man opposite her looked mildly impressed by her courage.

"How did you deduce that one?"

"Miss Fake Name and the Jag, clear government issue. The nondescript suit and the rather obvious contempt that's on your face."

"Those are mere generalizations, Ms. Pennington," the man came closer to her. "I've heard your power of deduction skills are quite sharp."

"I don't think you have earned that little pleasantry just yet," Nicola glared at him. "I don't really care why you have had me brought here, but my flat complex burned down and I have to-"

"Go and account for your whereabouts," he finished. "it's already taken care of. You seem to have forgotten something, by the way.." the man picked up a box that was hidden in a shadow, then stepped forward and handed it to Nicola.

"Max!" she cried. "I forgot all about him!" her cat meowed loudly in the carrier.

"Now that I have your attention, I understand you are to be living with Sherlock Holmes?"

"For the time being, yes. How is that any of your business?"

He ignored the question as she set the carrier down and faced him again. "I will pay you 5,000 pounds to get another place."

Nicola sighed. "Look, I appreciate what you have done for me, but you do not get to dictate who I live with. I can tell you if you're worried about the sexual dimension, let me reassure you that I am completely asexual. Sherlock doesn't exactly get my motor running anyway."

"It's not that. Do we have a deal?"

"I would say not. I know Sherlock had a history of drugs and I can help keep an eye on him," Nicola said reassuringly. "With John Watson and I there he won't slip up."

Caught off guard, for once he was at a loss for what to say. John worked hard to keep Sherlock's addictions out of the blog and out of the public eye along with Lestrade. Nicola grasped his upper arm in a reassuring squeeze. Surprised, he didn't pull away or say anything for a long moment. Briefly he wondered if he'd underestimated the historian.

"I'm sure he won't pull anything sneaky. Now, it was nice to meet you… Mycroft."

"How the hell did you-" his eyes narrowed a little bit as Nicola switched the carrier to the other hand.

"I've been friends with John Watson for over two years now, " she giggled. "his description of you matches perfectly. You remind me of your brother quite a lot and I know this is how you tried to dissuade John from living with Sherlock in the first place."

"Oh," Nicola started to walk off. "one more thing,"

"What's that?" she turned.

"My offer.."

Nicola laughed. "No offense Mycroft, but five thousand isn't enough to spark anyone into doing what anyone asks. You forget I'm from a rich family!"

After she had gotten into the Jaguar and disappeared, Mycroft pulled out his cell phone and checked his messages.

Do not offer Nicola the same silly deal as John. That's pocket change for her.

SH.

Mycroft smirked and texted back his brother:

That much is apparent. I think you have a real challenge on your hands.

Mycroft.

The government agent knew it was past nine PM, but he also knew that his local club would still be open, so perhaps a draft of beer or a half of beer would be suitable. It was after all much too early for bedtime just yet.

Back at Baker Street, Nicola bought supplies from a local pet shop just down the street for Max. Mrs. Hudson had agreed to look after him until she returned from her errand. Nicola was fortunate; the shop had been less than ten minutes away from closing when she swept in like a whirlwind and bought what she needed. Cat food, litter, a box, a small slotted shovel, a bowl for his food and water, and of course catnip.

Nicola just barely made it to the door, slipping a bit in her pumps, the big shopping bag rattling and rustling in one hand. Mrs. Hudson eagerly took the bag from her hand as Max curled around his owner's ankles, purring and begging to be picked up.

"Have you thought about where you will sleep, dear?" Mrs. Hudson, still bearing the bag, followed Nicola and Max upstairs.

"Anywhere it's comfortable, Mrs. Hudson. As long as it's not an airport floor I'll be happy."

"Goodness me! I think our beds are far more comfortable!" Nicola chuckled, remembering when Sherlock stayed with her he'd been subjected to her pull out couch. It had never been used but it wasn't particularly comfortable for him. Nicola flat out refused to surrender her bed and offered to put him in a hotel, but in the end they had worked out a compromise. They shared her bed, he on one side and Nicola wrapped up in her robe on the other side. A small pillow sham between them drew the line which neither one crossed.

If necessary they could do that again, though John might get the wrong idea.

In the living room, Sherlock had already changed into his night attire, for once about to settle in for an early night. John looked up from his blog he was writing, a little surprised to see Max.

"I'd forgotten you'd had a cat." the cat recognized him immediately and jumped up onto the laptop keyboard, purring full blast.

"Just watch where you step, that's all. He likes to sit on the windowsill and sleep all day. At night he sleeps with me. He has really taken a fancy to you, John."

"Cats have an intuitive instinct," Sherlock piped up from the couch. "they know who to trust and they are hardly ever wrong."

"Yes. I know how the cat feels." John stroked the animal until he collapsed in his furry ecstasy, flipping onto his back for a belly rub. "All right, Max, we can continue later. I want to fix this now."

"By the way Sherlock, your brother is quite lacking in charm," Nicola grinned. "quite a stiff bore, hardly smiles."

Sherlock looked up from his laptop. "I knew that Mycroft would try to bribe you away from me. My brother could never stand smiling. Thinks it's like work. I gave him your phone number, by the way."

"If you think it necessary. John told me a lot about him so I played for the emotional card. I know he cares about you and to a lesser extent John and me. Caught him off guard."

"It is a rare person indeed who can catch my brother off guard. Now, you two head to bed."

"How's that going to work?" John put his laptop away and picked up Max.

"Nicola's going to use my room. I want to stay up a bit longer and go through the medical database."

"See if you can narrow it down, eh? Good night, Sherlock." Nicola went into the bedroom while John went upstairs to his room. Max followed his owner, tail held high as he pranced into the room and jumped on the bed.

On the bed was a bag from a local clothing store with something bulky. Nicola picked it up, reached in, and drew out a new bathrobe. It was made of the same material as Sherlock's robe, light purple in color. Smiling, she took off her clothes and put the robe on. It hugged her skin, the lining feeling like silk as she tied the sash. Max purred as if offering his approval.

Something else was in the bag as well. A small cloth bag filled with toiletries, even a few luxuries like bubble bath and a lavender scented votive candle. A note read to Nicola, from Sherlock, John and Mrs. Hudson.

"The best of a bad situation." she muttered, lying down on the bed and wrapping an arm around Max as he sat next to her.

Two hours later Sherlock couldn't keep his eyes open much longer, so he decided to hit the sack. He brushed his teeth, put his robe away and got into bed. It was a lot like old times in Nicola's apartment. She now lay opposite him with Max purring away at her head , his tail flicking a bit in Sherlock's direction, but the detective didn't mind.

The next morning, Nicola was up and dressed in the same outfit as last night. Mrs. Hudson was downstairs cleaning, John and Sherlock were finishing their breakfasts when a call came in for Sherlock from Lestrade.

"We've got another murder!" Sherlock's eyes lit up. "Want to come, Nicola?"

"Me and dead bodies don't mix. If there's any historical connotations, let me know." Nicola fed Max and looked into the kitchen area. "Good god! I need to purge this place! Ugh!" she discovered several bags of indescribable filth and gore in the fridge. "Maybe Mrs. Hudson would let me take over her kitchen instead."

"That's a better idea!" John grinned at her. "Off to shop today?"

"I better if I want to look good. I need some boots; my feet are killing me in these pumps."

"I can imagine," they put on their jackets and left. Nicola went downstairs to Mrs. Hudson and asked if she could commandeer the kitchen. "I don't like the garbage Sherlock has! He's got a dummy tied up in a corner!"

"Oh, you're preaching to the choir, dear! Go ahead and use my kitchen whenever you like. I wouldn't ask you to touch anything in that kitchen upstairs."

"Thanks!"

When Nicola was done, she bundled up, got into her car, then went over to Harrod's to replenish her wardrobe. In no time at all she'd covered the lingerie department, socks, bras, underpants and assorted nylon hosiery. Snow boots and sneakers were all she needed in the shoe department, as she would buy her open toed sandals when the weather got warmer.

In electronics, she bought a new laptop and charger for her cell phone. There were a few people who pointed and stared at her, whispering behind their hands, but she ignored them. Being mildly famous as a historian had a lot of people wondering why she didn't pick a more "modern" occupation and she had her share of detractors. Nicola could certainly understand that no two people had the same interests but she always bristled at the fact everyone turned up their nose at her when she told them she was a historian.

By noontime she had covered all her basics-yoga pants, a wide range of colored t-shirts, some tan chino pants, blue jeans, a few dresses for formal events, sleepwear, and two belts. Nicola didn't like to splurge too much on jewelry, so she bought two necklaces and a six pack of earrings that were on sale.

"Excuse me," a brown haired man with big brown eyes looked at her from two racks away. He was dressed in a three piece tan suit. "are you Nicola Pennington the historian?"

"I am. You are?" he crossed over to her, a new tie in one of his hands.

"You can call me Jim. Old friend of Sherlock's." he smiled, shook her hand, then brought it up to his lips and kissed it.

Nicola was already wary. Sherlock had no friends expect for her and John, especially not one named Jim. She decided to see how this was going to play out. "Can I invite you to lunch?"

Maybe he wouldn't be so bad but she had to keep herself alert. "I would be honored."

"Great! Let me just get this tie and meet you in the little bistro across the way?"

"Sure."

Nicola picked out a booth in the bistro and checked her phone. There was one text from Sherlock informing her of the case and he had sent her a picture of the body.

"Ugh just when I'm about to eat!" she groused. The body had been disemboweled completely postmortem and the primary cause of death was a hanging.

What do u think of this?

SH

It looks like he'd been punished for high treason. 16th century again.

N.

"Hello!" Jim came in and sat in the booth opposite her. "Did I keep you waiting long?"

"Not at all, Jim." the menus were given to them and they made their selections. "I wonder if it's too early to have a beer." Nicola said sheepishly.

"Why not?" Jim trumpeted and had the waiter bring over a six glass sampler of the beers the bistro had on tap.

"So to what do I owe the visit, Jim? You a fan of history?" Nicola resolved not to let him start talking about Sherlock. She knew he was obsessed with her friend and nothing would make her reveal any secrets. She didn't even know Sherlock that well but she did know John.

"I'm a fan of just about everything," Jim smiled. "I heard things about your brother Robert and I was wondering if any of the rumors were true."

"Oh please, he's such an embarrassment to my family I would rather not talk about him."

"So it is true then, you hold fast to the old stigmas?"

"He was disowned and hasn't got a cent to his name. The bastard keeps pumping out bastards which pisses us off. We're kind of the traditionalist family-nobody has kids out of wedlock."

"Damn shame," their orders came. Jim had fettucine alfredo and Nicola opted for cheese ravioli. "so what interested you in history primarily?"

"I had a very influential teacher.." Nicola launched on a small soliloquy, encouraged by Jim, which she outlined her primary interest and how the interest really took off after high school. She went to the university of Cambridge and completed a four year degree, emerging with a Ph.d in the subject. Her dissertation had been on the reign of Queen Victoria and her relationship with her family.

All questions directed at Jim he would rebuff and turn the conversation over to her. Nicola didn't mind that much, though she did think it odd. She'd met a lot of people in her lecture tour series-oddballs, extroverts, so she didn't think too much of Jim. Besides, a lot of people liked to pick her brain on history and she didn't mind that at all.

They split the check and walked out from the bistro. "So I heard you're a good cook. Do you think that I could try it sometime?" Jim asked, grinning as they reached the parking lot.

"Why not? I like you, Jim. Here's my number so give me a call." she pecked him on the cheek, watching him blush a little bit. "I look forward to it." Nicola winked and was on her way.

Jim walked in the opposite direction, a smile on his face that was unfathomable.

Back at Baker Street, Nicola unloaded her bags from the car and made things as tidy and comfortable as possible. Max curled around her ankles, asking for attention. She sat down in John's chair with her new laptop and began to set it up.

Sherlock bounded into the room not even five minutes after Nicola had settled in. He unwound his scarf, tossed it onto the couch, then flung himself in his chair near the hearth. Startled, Max pounced on one of his catnip mice Mrs. Hudson had gotten for him, sending the toy across the floor to Sherlock's foot.

"Gee Sherlock, how were things today?" Nicola asked mildly as she typed on her new laptop.

"Our victim was disemboweled all right. Even John looked green around the gills!"

"Where is he?"

"Off with his pal Stamford."

"In what manner was the victim disemboweled?"

Sherlock gave her a blank stare. "What?"

"I mean, was the victim hung until he was just about dead, cut open, then had his bowel looped around his neck and his heart cut out?"

"He did."

"Sixteenth century again. That was for high treason."

"What constituted high treason?"

"Mainly speaking out against the king, casting the king or queen's horoscope, or in the case for Queen Mary, converting to Protestantism. She was a devout Catholic and would have had high ranking officials burned at the stake as heretics."

"Wasn't Anne Boleyn beheaded?"

"Yeah. It was either beheading or what you've already seen. The king commuted the sentence, as beheading was more merciful. Over in an instant if you will."

"I bet that's it!" Sherlock jumped up and typed the victims' names into Google. "There we are, victim number one was a Protestant recently converted to Catholicism! Number two did that as well and around the same time frame."

"Do you think this is some sort of belated revenge for Edward the sixth? He was a fanatical Protestant and Mary undid a lot of his work." Nicola glanced over at Sherlock, wondering exactly he was on about.

"I think we have a psychopath out there who has an obsession with Edward and Protestantism in general," Sherlock printed out something and snatched up the paper. "come on! We can get John on the way!"

Nicola saw the paper was the address of the Catholic church that both victims had converted in. She picked up her leather jacket and gloves, barely managing to keep up with Sherlock as he catapulted out the door, ignoring Mrs. Hudson's inquiry about where they were going.

John was just finishing a late lunch with Stamford so he didn't mind and really wasn't surprised when Sherlock came down the street, his mouth going a million miles a minute. Nicola was right beside him, not paying any attention to what he was saying. The doctor guessed that Nicola was an official part of the group now, as she was wearing the official annoyed look when Sherlock blabbered on and on, not taking any notice if he was being understood.

"Oh, I see Sherlock's got that look on his face," Stamford chuckled. "nice to see you, John." they shook hands, Stamford giving Sherlock a nod of hello and a warm smile to Nicola. She returned it courteously, remembering that she had met him once or twice before.

"Come on, John!" Sherlock adjusted his scarf. "The game is on!"

"Say what?" he hadn't heard Sherlock say that in a long time. Nicola sniggered.

"We're heading to Westminster Abbey!"

"I don't understand."

"Taxi!" Sherlock waved his arms, then when one pulled up, he wrenched the door open, pushing Nicola inside and John followed her. He sneaked a glance back at Stamford who was waiting for another taxi. His corpulent friend gave him an amused smile, mixed with a bit of pity. Stamford knew about Sherlock's eccentricities.

Cramped together in the backseat, Sherlock explained, "The network is working on the information that I gave them, though Nicola gave me an idea. She was explaining methods of execution for traitors and heretics, I checked both of the victims' Facebook profiles and it mentioned that both of them had converted to Catholicism a few weeks ago."

"So you think some loony is doing God's work?" John looked over at Nicola.

"It's the only connection so far," she backed up Sherlock. "I hate to think that some screwball is out there thinking he's Henry the eighth or Edward the sixth. They burned Catholics as heretics but not as much as Mary the first did with Protestants later on."

"Where are we heading?"

"Westminster Abbey. If there is something nefarious going on in the church, we need to get to the bottom of it." Sherlock's eyes lit up with the familiar rush he was feeling-the thrill of the chase!

"Isn't Westminster Protestant?"

"John, Westminster Abbey has been officially a peculiar which means it isn't affiliated with any one diocese," Nicola informed him. "it celebrates mass there or can do a Protestant wedding, you name it."

"Oh." the cab pulled up in front of Westminster Abbey a few minutes later. As much of a rush Sherlock was usually in, even he slowed down as the hushed silence of the place seemed to overtake all of them. They walked up the vestibule and into the sanctuary quietly, following the signs to the rectory on site.

"Who is the priest on duty today?" Sherlock inquired as he came upon a church deacon who was lighting the candles for the 4 PM mass.

"That would be Reverend Daniel Marcus, sir. Through there." the deacon courteously showed them the way.

"I'll be right back, John. I want to check out the tomb of Elizabeth I."

"Right back. Loo." she nodded and headed off to the elaborate tomb.

The recumbent marble figure had velvet rope all around it to discourage people from touching the figure, but there was a wide rectangular space Nicola could stand near it. She could see the church maintenance team had been taking care of the tomb very well-not a speck of dust anywhere. The tomb itself had a canopy supported on four strong posts, making Nicola think of a four poster canopy bed she had as a child.

Nicola was in awe. She had only visited the tomb twice before and knew that it contained not just Elizabeth I's remains but also her older sister Mary I. Mary had been the one to convert England back to Catholicism after Edward's reformation, which was not well received. Mary had omitted saying anything of her intentions during or after her coronation for a few months, which many saw as sneaky.

"Found her, eh?" John came up to Nicola.

"I found both of them."

"Both?"

"Mary Tudor is in here too."

"Why isn't she buried separately?"

"You'd have to ask James I of that. I think it was because Elizabeth I had a long reign, she overcame the Spanish armada-it was the golden age and she had 44 years of a stable reign. She outshone her sister in every way, shape and form."

"Isn't that Mary Queen of Scots's tomb over there?"

"Yeah. Mary and Elizabeth were at odds. Did you know they were cousins?"

"Were they?"

"Yes. Henry the eighth's sister Margaret Tudor married James the fourth over in Scotland, resulting in James the fifth. He married Mary of Guise, a Frenchwoman, and thus Mary Queen of Scots."

"What was the animosity between them? High school was a long time ago!" John blushed slightly.

"A refresher lecture for ya: Mary was Scottish and a Catholic. She was married three times, to the Dauphin of France who died, to Charles Lord Darnley and his death was suspicious. The place he was in caught fire and it was suspected that Mary had a hand in it. They had a son, James the sixth of Scotland, later the first of England. Darnley grew really arrogant and self centered, Mary was chummy with her Italian male secretary so Darnley murdered him right in front of her. It was easy to think that Mary murdered Darnley."

"Do you think she did?"

"I think someone did it for her," Nicola guessed. "Darnley was found with bruise marks on his neck and I don't think Mary was strong enough to strangle him. Anyway, she found a third husband, the Earl of Bothwell, they had a little tryst at one of the castles, then she married him. He wasn't popular with the common folk and Mary was forced to abdicate for the sake of her son."

"Was the abdication more of a religious issue than spousal?"

"Yes. Scotland was largely Protestant and they didn't want a Catholic ruler. I think the lords were just waiting for an excuse to force the abdication. She did and because she wrote to Elizabeth, she was under the impression that she was welcome on English land. Elizabeth wasn't happy she showed up because Mary had a stronger claim to the English throne."

"Why is that?"

"Well, Elizabeth was declared a bastard because Henry had Anne Boleyn beheaded on fake charges of incest, etc. Mary Queen of Scots was never called a bastard. Anyway, Elizabeth had Mary imprisoned for 19 years. Towards the end of that, Mary started conspiring to put herself on the English throne. Elizabeth's best spy rumbled the plot, so Mary was arrested and eventually beheaded."

"Wow."

"Telling me. Mary kept insisting that since she was Scottish, the English laws didn't apply to her. She never believed she was going to lose her head until it actually did happen." Nicola sighed. Elizabeth wasn't keen to decapitate her cousin, but she knew it had to be done. The historian always had an undying respect and awe for Elizabeth 1, who had converted her femininity to her advantage, rarely made hasty decisions, and overcame the Spanish armada. Her subjects grew to admire her and the cult of the Virgin Queen took root.

"I'm going to go check on Sherlock. You know how he gets." John told Nicola.

"I'm surprised the reverend hasn't gone screaming from his office yet," she joked. "give it a minute."

At the same time, Sherlock was interrogating the reverend Marcus the best he could. The priest sat behind his oak desk, a picture of Jesus framed in balsa wood on the wall behind him. A crucifix depicting Jesus hung on the office door as the secretary closed it behind him.

"Now, I'm sure your congregation has troublemakers in it like all the others," Sherlock started.

The priest, a slightly corpulent figure with gray hair and a combover, locked his gray eyes with Sherlock's blue ones and said, "Excuse me?"

"Two people who converted to Catholicism are now dead," Sherlock snapped. "I need names!"

"Sir, I am a Protestant priest." Marcus drew himself up, trying to look imposing, but Sherlock recognized that tactic all too well. His keen blue eyes locked onto the reverend and made several observations in the space of ten seconds.

Blue ink stains on the fingers, dark perspiration ring around the collared shirt, dirty hair that hasn't been washed in about four days, a backpack in the corner with a dark shirtsleeve sticking out. The family portrait had two teen girls and a teenage boy in it. There was a faint dark stain on one of the girls' hands, the other's eyes were glazed over, showing a mild photosensitivity. The male had a faint white smear underneath one of his nostrils. The wife in the picture had a large sapphire ring on one of her fingers.

"Are you aware that your wife is having an affair?"

The reverend colored slightly but kept his cool, clenching his fingers under the desk. He had heard the rumors about Sherlock and his amazing skills of deduction, but he never believed it until he witnessed it for himself. Sherlock looked like a bloodhound on the scent of a lost boy in the woods.

"You know," the detective zeroed in on the reverend, the blue gaze only intensifying, making Marcus extremely uncomfortable. John walked in behind them, shutting the door softly. "you know that your wife is cozying up to one of her coworkers at the office. That ring she's wearing in the picture is far beyond what a pastor makes on salary." Marcus glanced at the photo furiously as Sherlock turned up the intensity of his observations, firing them out like a machine gun would spit out bullets.

"Look at you, ink stains on your hands, the ring around your collar, the fact your coffee mug hasn't been washed in at least three days, the backpack over there with spare clothes in it. You are so obsessed with your congregation and guiding them through your prayers and sermons you neglect your family. Your wife is sleeping around, your two daughters sneak out and go to parties at all hours of the night, your son is a drug addict who frequently disappears."

John took a look at the photo subtly. The dark stain on the hand was a nicotine stain meaning the girl smoked, the photosensitivity was obvious to him as a doctor, as the girl looked hungover. The almost unnoticeable white smear under the boy's nose was classic of a cocaine addiction.

"It's pointless to try to fool me," Sherlock glared down the pastor. "you are too involved with your congregation at the expense of your family, so I need names of the troublemakers!"

"I-I"

"That's not the answer I want!" the detective snapped. "More people will die!"

"Fine! I know of a troublemaker in my congregation, a Louisa Reiss who is always making trouble!" Marcus wrote down her contact information and thrust it at Sherlock. "Now stop making trouble for me and leave this place at once!"

Sherlock left with a wry little smile on his face. John wanted to give a snappy remark to the pastor but his wit deserted him as he followed Sherlock out the door.

"Well, are we productive?" Nicola asked as they met her at the altar.

"The pastor gave us this name," Sherlock handed over the note. "all we have to do is look her up and maybe we will get somewhere."

"Louisa Reiss? She's involved with a curate group who maintains Windsor castle."

"You know her?"

"I met her once but she won't remember me." Nicola remembered the lady well, white hair twisted up in a bun, wearing a black pencil skirt with a ruffly gray blouse. They had met at a meeting to discuss how to preserve Windsor castle's elaborate tapestries and to get the Queen Victoria balcony repaired.

"Why not?"

"John, she's old and is about to retire. She's in the beginning stages of Alzheimer's." Nicola had heard that through a mutual acquaintance and she had been saddened to learn of it.

Sherlock realized then the pastor had given him a fake name just to get him out of his office. Just then his cell phone buzzed. "Lestrade, what is it?" he asked irritably as the other two walked down from the altar and began to stride among the pews.

"So what did you look at while we were in there?" John asked Nicola.

"Not a lot. I found the Poet's Corner and read off some of the nameplates. I am a fan of Dickens."

"Me too. The Curiosity Shoppe is one of my favorites." before they could get any further than that, Sherlock hung up his phone and dashed over to them. Nicola had come to recognize already the light in her friend's eyes which meant a new development had just occurred.

"What is it?"

"Another victim, John! Come on you two!" they bolted to the door, flagging down the first cab that they saw.

"Ugh! What is that smell!" Nicola put her hand to her nose. Sherlock gave no indication that he heard her, but followed John's example, putting a tissue to his own mouth and nose. The wind was blowing in off of the Thames, carrying the smell right to them.

"John, you ought to know what that smell is. Didn't you smell it in Afghanistan?"

"It was a long time ago, Sherlock! I blocked some things out mentally because no person should see the things that I did." the car pulled up and as they opened up the door, the smell became more rank.

"It's like a bonfire but worse!" Nicola was starting to feel a bit nauseated.

"Ah, Sherlock and company!" Lestrade met them at the car, giving them surgical masks to wear. "It's pretty foul, but we're in the open air and the fire's out. We've got the team looking into this. One of the most bizarre things I've ever seen!"

"Let's have a look." snapping on their plastic gloves, Nicola hung back some and watched her friends swarm over something blackened in front of them. They were near the Thames now with screeching seagulls overhead and the faint smell of diesel from the tanker ship nearby. Nicola recognized a funeral pyre, an upright post in the ground, lots of chopped wood mounded up underneath it that the victim had been removed from. Thankfully now the smell was fast dissipating as the firemen shoveled dirt onto the remaining embers.

"Not for the faint of heart or a weak constitution," Lestrade stood beside the historian. "I have never seen anything like it before!"

"It's like a 16th century execution," Nicola shook her head. "some twisted sicko."

"Have we met before? Greg Lestrade." they shook hands.

"Nicola Pennington."

"You must be the historian they are consulting. Any idea on what we're dealing with?"

"All I can say now is that these are executions used for a number of reasons." Nicola trailed off, wondering what her friends would find. Lestrade fell silent as well.

"Well John, I told you this might be familiar to you." Sherlock and John were crouched over a man's figure, the clothes charred and burned black. Soot stained the man's face but it was clear enough so they could ID him later on.

Unfortunately the body was too badly burned to be of any use to the investigators. John couldn't discern any distinguishing marks like tattoos and Sherlock could not observe any clues except for one.

"Nicola! What is this?" John and Sherlock removed strands of rope away from the victim's neck and brought it over to her. She took it from them, giving it a quick sniff.

"Lestrade, does this smell like gunpowder to you?" he agreed.

"The Gunpowder Plot?"

"Maybe, John. We're not really any further in this. In some executions they would hang a bag of gunpowder from the victim's neck so they die faster. Greg, did you hear any kind of explosion or was there a report from someone about it?"

"I did hear it about half an hour ago."

"Typical. John, what's that?" the medics had put the body on a stretcher and something had fallen out of the pocket. John stooped to pick it up.

"Looks like a rosary." the red beads were soot stained along with the crucifix, but came off when rubbed with a tissue.

"Let us know what Molly finds out and text us this man's name when you ID him." Lestrade nodded.

"Dead ends! Dead ends!" Sherlock trumpeted as soon as they got home. Nicola and John took off their coats and hung them up along with their friend's. John went to the kitchen to get dinner started. Nicola sat down on John's chair, watching as Sherlock went over to his desk, pulled out a box, then took out two small items and tore the wrapping off.

Nicola saw a brand name nicotine patch box on the desk, then observed her friend slap both onto his right arm, then fling himself onto the couch, brow furrowed in concentration. Sherlock then proceeded to shut his eyes, tossing his cell phone on the coffee table. John came out of the kitchen, a blank look on his face as he saw Sherlock.

"I guess that's his process." Nicola remarked to John, looking mildly amused by the tableau. Sherlock had tuned them both out, retreating into his mind palace.

"Yep. What do you want for supper?"

"I'm not into cooking tonight and it's already getting late." it was almost 10 PM. "I think I'll go for some toaster waffles or something." fortunately there were some in the freezer and Sherlock hadn't abused or cannibalized the toaster. The two of them ate in silence, prompting Nicola to ask John how long Sherlock would be on the couch.

"I have no idea. He could be there for a day or two." they rinsed off their plates and put them in the dishwasher.

"Goodnight, Sherlock." Nicola called, but he didn't seem to hear her.

John went to bed and was quietly snoring within half an hour but Nicola didn't. She lay awake in the new nightgown Sherlock and John had given her, puzzling over the little evidence they had. Two, possibly three people murdered seemingly because they had converted to the Catholic faith. There had to be more to it than that, coupled with a reverend who lied, but based on what Sherlock had told them in the cab, it was to be expected. He didn't think the pastor was worth pursuing at all.

Like Sherlock, Nicola didn't want to rule anything out. While doing research, she would make note of every single little thing to make sure of her facts. To her, there had to be a reason why Louisa was used as a scapegoat by the pastor.

Perhaps it was just a dislike, Nicola allowed. Louisa had been a bit of a busybody, sticking her nose into other people's business. Louisa had several friends who were incurable gossips as well, so it would be easy to see how rumors of the pastor's wife cheating would spread around. With gossip sometimes it was hard to track down the source, as the story would constantly get distorted and changed around with each participant.

Gossip was unreliable, so Marcus tried to give Louisa as a possible suspect, figuring that the police would arrest and charge her, then he could kick her out of the congregation. That much was obvious to Nicola, the pastor spying his chance to get rid of someone and do it.

But that still did not solve the mystery they were tracking now.

It was barely 8 AM when Sherlock woke up on the couch. Rubbing his eyes, he sat up, yawned, then went off to the shower. On the way he ran into Nicola, wrapped up in her robe and a towel binding up her hair.

"Morning, Sherlock. I made coffee for you," she chirped. "John's getting up now."

"Good." he grunted, shutting himself into the bathroom.

"Not a morning person," Nicola chuckled. "got it."

A few minutes later after Sherlock had his shower and was drinking his coffee when there was a knock on the door. Mrs. Hudson came into the room, holding a small package. "Sherlock, this was addressed to you, dear."

"Hmmm," he ripped it open. Out fell a fake pearl necklace with the initial B. "Nicola?"

The historian's eyes grew wider as she took the necklace in her hand. "Oh god."

"What is it?" Mrs. Hudson pressed.

"John! Sherlock, we have to be at the Tower of London by nine AM! Come on!" already dressed in jeans and a blue t-shirt, Nicola grabbed her leather jacket and dashed out the door, thudding down the steps in her snow boots. Sherlock followed her, grabbing his jacket and scarf.

John stepped out of the shower, wearing corduroy pants and a plaid blue button up shirt. "What was all that about, Mrs. Hudson?"

En route to the Tower, Sherlock eschewed the taxis, maintaining that they could go faster on foot. Snow was falling fast and passerbys looked after them with a scandalized glance. Londoners, Nicola thought, like they bled dignity with every step they took. The city folk discouraged running around with hapless abandon, preferring not to rush, even if they were late.

"I don't suppose… you'd tell us… why this is so.. important!" Sherlock huffed, bypassing the main gate a few minutes later. Nicola slid in on her boots, arms windmilling as she slowed down a bit, then found grip on the pathway again.

"We need Tower Green!" they followed the signs, making a wrong turn or two, but Nicola quickly realized where they were heading.

On Tower Green, the duo saw a makeshift scaffold erected near the plaque, which commemorated all those who had lost their heads on that spot. A person was dressed in the plague doctor outfit, and a person dressed all in black with a hood over their head stood nearby, hands bound behind their back.

"Nice of you to make it here with about five minutes to spare," a gravelly voice issued from behind the plague doctor's mask. The person in the black hood gave a little gasp of relief, though the plague doctor hissed for them to shut up, giving a yank on the bonds.

"The game is up. I know who you are," Sherlock informed the person.

"Oh really?"

"Come down from there…Robert."

Nicola gaped at her friend. The plague doctor threw off their mask, revealing the features of the historian's brother. He also took off the hood of the victim, which was Louisa. Sherlock did not look at Nicola, concentrating on the criminal.

"The great Sherlock Holmes," Robert Pennington jeered. "I suppose you have it all worked out, don't you?"

"From what Nicola told me about you, it was a fairly simple deduction," Sherlock claimed. "you're a misogynist, attempting to live a normal life for awhile in the merchant marines, but in your childhood you always felt your sister and brother garnered more attention than you had. You developed what you thought was a love for women, but you went too far and when your family discovered you went outside the moral code of the family, they disowned you. Thus that resulted in a hatred of your family and you desired to take revenge, goaded on by your girlfriend. You decided to take down your sister first, knowing that she is a historian, decided to use history as clues."

As Sherlock was speaking, John crept into the courtyard and sneaked up behind Louisa on the scaffold, carefully cutting her bonds. Robert was glaring at Sherlock, all attention on him. Nicola was gaping at her brother like she'd just seen an exorcism.

"You're very astute, Mr. Holmes."

"It doesn't take a genius to figure out you hate women. You always felt your mother loved your sister more, your superiors in past jobs were women and treated you like a toy or were indifferent, your girlfriend railroads you in everything so she's the dominant one. You needed to find a way to get even with them, so you began to kill. It gave you a sick special jolly and a sense of power, but you're going away for a long time for this." Sherlock could not text Lestrade, but he gave John a nearly imperceptible nod.

"I hardly think so!" Robert could not finish his sentence as John tackled him from behind, pinning his hands back in an iron grip.

Nicola took her chance to guide Louisa off the platform, guiding her down the rickety steps. "It's all right, Louisa."

"That evil man," she gibbered. "took me last night when my husband went missing!"

"Your husband?"

"Aye! He went out last night for takeaway and never returned!"

"Did you call the police?"

"I did!" Nicola did not want to say what she had suspected had happened to Louisa's husband, to John's approving glance. Sherlock looked down upon Robert with disgust in every line of his face as he pulled out his phone and called Lestrade.

Robert, standing up with his hands behind his back like his former hostage, glowered at his sister. His blue eyes were ice cold, there was a 3 day old beard on his face and he looked menacing in the low light. Nicola pulled a small scarf out of her jacket pocket and tied it on, throwing her hair back from her face.

"Going to rat me out to our parents then, dear sister?" Robert asked dryly. "I bet this will make the Christmas card!"

Nicola glanced at John who gave her a little look which meant not to sink to his level. "I believe this will make the news and they will find out anyway. I am glad that I know your true colors and you'll get put away for the rest of your life. I hope your dirtbag girlfriend and her spawn move far away from here!"

"My kids will be taken in by Mom and Dad."

"No they won't. Mom told me that a long time ago. If anything had happened to you, they will not lift a finger to help. You had your chance to fly right within our family guidelines and you blew it. Don't expect anyone to write to you."

Robert's smugness disappeared in an instant. At the same time, Lestrade came in with Donovan and a few other policemen. Sherlock gave Lestrade the summary of what had transpired, Donovan cuffed Robert and he was led away.

Louisa ambushed an officer about her husband, who ushered her to a police car where he could write down her statement about that and what had just happened. Sherlock and John exchanged words, but Nicola did not hear them. She put her hands in her pockets and looked around Tower Green for a long moment.

"Er-Nicola?"

"Yes?"

"How did you know they'd be here on Tower Green?"

"Well, John, it was the necklace," Nicola produced the fake pearl string with the B on it. "in the museum, there's a portrait of Anne Boleyn wearing something very similar to this. The most anyone ever really knows about Anne Boleyn is that she was beheaded right here. Given the 16th century execution style murders we were dealing with, it makes sense that the murderer wanted to finish off with a royal execution so to speak. I bet Robert wanted to behead Louisa, but I don't know why he'd want to finish off with her."

"It turns out Ms. Reiss is an uncontrollable gossip," Sherlock informed them as they started to walk towards the exit. "she spread misinformation about Robert and just about anyone really."

"She's one of the people who lives for gossip and spreads it around, believing all of it. Busybody old ladies and some not so old do it. You'd think their mothers would teach them better." Nicola said angry. All three of them fell into step as they walked over to the exit, ignoring snowflakes that were thickly falling.

"It doesn't matter now," John took her arm. "it's all over."

"I suppose so," Nicola sighed. John was about to say something else but a glance from Sherlock told him to let it go. Surprised by his friend, John kept his mouth shut. Nicola bore no expression in her face, but both men knew that she would not keep it that way for long.

The rest of the day passed with Sherlock checking out new clients and dismissing all of their cases as absolutely boring, making Nicola smirk behind their backs. She sat at the desk, stroking Max, letting her mind wander.

Her childhood memories surfaced, mainly those of her brothers and herself camping, swimming, fishing, etc. The family vacations had always been at some lakeside spot with her dad teaching them how to swim and do many other things as well. Nicola found herself wondering about Robert, trying to pinpoint any occasion where he might have showed signs of becoming the troublemaker and murderer he now was.

While Sherlock and John were called out to a potential case, Nicola's cell phone started to ring. She put Max on the floor, dropped into Sherlock's chair, and put her phone up to her ear.

"Hello?"

"Nicola dear, it's Mom," her mother's velvet voice filtered into her ear. Something in her mother's voice seemed to dissolve a mental barrier in her mind and tears came to her eyes. "how are you, darling?"

"I.."

"It's OK if you don't know what to feel. We're all in a bit of shock right now. Your father is predictably furious with Robert."

Nicola had to giggle. Challenge the family's strict moral values and he would go off like a volcano. They were rich, they had to set an example, all the arguments she had heard before.

"See, I knew you would like that," Mrs. Pennington chuckled. "I called to ask you how you were as you were the one who could really stand up to Robert. Of course that made him go after you first. When you two were growing up he was always proud of you for standing up for yourself, but after his ego got inflated by the bad people he was around when he was older, he mistakenly believed you would be submissive as he was a man."

"Oh I already know about that," Nicola replied, remembering Robert had tried to make her passive during an argument once. "he kept telling me what I should be like as a woman. Shades of Grandma and I thought that was where he got it."

"Your grandmother knows now that you aren't going to change who you are even though she keeps nagging you to be more ladylike."

"Lost cause there." both women laughed as Max leapt onto her lap and purred loudly. Nicola stroked his ears and long tail as he kneaded her thighs.

"I know, dear. Be assured your father and I couldn't be more proud of you. Inspector Lestrade told us that you'd been helping Mr. Holmes and Dr. Watson with the case. Oh, by the way did you hear about how the fire in your flat building started?"

"No, I haven't heard a word of it." the murder case had her tied up. Nicola hadn't seen or heard from Mycroft since they met in the warehouse.

"It turns out someone had been smoking in their bedroom while reading a magazine. You know you cannot smoke in an apartment complex for exactly this reason," Mrs. Pennington informed her. "consequently he's being sued for damages."

"Do I get a cut from the lawsuit?"

"You do. Your father has offered you use of Azalea for as long as you need it."

"Azalea?" her family's London townhouse near Highgate. "I'm here with Sherlock and John and I'm content. Aren't you and Dad in Azalea now?"

"We're in Dartmoor right now. Your father has plans to fly to Rome tomorrow for business. I will be in Azalea sometime tomorrow evening and I would welcome your company."

"Sorry, Mom. I like it right here."

"OK, darling. Your other brother, Mr. Royal Air Force, sends his love and says he won't be attending Robert's trial. None of us will. Are you?"

"I'm sending in an official statement. Sherlock is as well-no court wants him in person as he does love to show off."

"I can imagine! Make sure you change your address accordingly, as the renter's insurance will be sending you a check soon."

"I will, Mom." Nicola heard Sherlock and John clambering upstairs. "Got to go."

"Love you very much, dear. Don't worry about what you can't control. Your brother chose his path a long time ago and it's not a reflection on any of us. Best to move on."

"I understand."

"That's my girl. I love you."

"Love you too." they hung up. Sherlock burst into the room, untangling his scarf from his neck and tossing them at Mrs. Hudson. John hung up his jacket, sinking into his chair near the fireplace. Nicola put Max on the floor, stood up, then put a log in the fireplace.

"You couldn't bloody leave it alone, could you?!" John handed Nicola the lighter. "You had to do your little deduction spiel and get kicked off the case!"

"What did you do now?" Nicola ignited a strip of birch bark and put it on the log, straightened up, then put the mesh grate over the fireplace opening.

"Mr. Clever here put his foot in his mouth by-"

"John, please!" Sherlock put his hands to his temples. "I need to think!"

"Clearly you weren't doing that at the time!"

Nicola sat back on the couch and watched the pair launch a verbal war at each other. Mrs. Hudson tittered and went downstairs, but the historian was completely entertained by the scene.

Later on that night, Nicola was lying awake in bed when John rapped on the doorframe.

"Enter." Sherlock was in the living room so they had privacy for the moment. John sat on the edge of the bed as Nicola sat up to face him better. He turned on the bedside lamp so he could see her better, then started off with a simple question.

"How are you doing?"

"Better," she sighed. "I keep going over memories, wondering if Robert exhibited any of these tendencies when he was younger, but nothing."

"People change. It isn't anybody's fault."

"True, but he is my brother. I don't think I love him anymore based on what he's done. Isn't that horrible of me?" her eyes filled up again with tears.

"Hey," John took her hand. "not at all. You have a good moral example set by your parents and he went against it. People will do that as long as there are humans on this earth. It's practically evolutionary."

"Right. Anyway, I do not want to be associated with him anymore. I haven't for awhile."

"It doesn't make you a bad person or sister."

"That's what Mom said. She called while you two were out. Anyhow, she said I best concentrate on the present and future, not to mention those that are good to me."

"It's good advice."

"They never steered me wrong before so I will take their advice. What matters to me is you and Sherlock."

"We feel the same about you. In the meantime, you need sleep," the doctor coming out in John, he reached over and turned off the lamp. "try to sleep now."

"I will, John. Thanks."

"Anytime." John smiled at her, wished her a good night, then closed the door. Sherlock began playing his violin, as if he himself knew that Nicola was feeling a bit fragile and needed the extra comfort that night.

FINIS


End file.
